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Being a Poet

March 14, 2017

There is something about being a poet that is self-defining. When I consider an idea or a random thought invades my consciousness it often seems best expressed in poetry. Perhaps that is why, although I have tried prose it doesn't seem to work well for me. There is something about trying to beak a thing down to its core and display it in crisp, succinct, moving ways.


An example is the poem that follows. I read a post on facebook that started me thinking about how personality and relationships evolve. The cycle of inventing and discovering the self. This is what I came up with.




Love is a scalpel,

It takes grafts from the id

to increase the definition of the ego.


Who am I?

Mate, Lover of culture, best friend . . .

graft the identity on my soul.


Then sloughing

if the graft didn't take -- a bleeding wound,

now build the scar.


Each moment redefine,

breaking from my chrysalis

I must slowly spread wings and dry.


My soul takes flight

and I graft new items to heal the scar

repeat ad infinitum.

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